New Shoes for Joltin' Joe
by Bud Macfarlane – 20 April 2005
On the day a pope is elected, his papal garments are definitely "off the shelf." Three sizes of pontifical fashion are kept on hand during a conclave–small, medium, and large. As with the rented tuxedo for a wedding, to err on the side of too large for the first, hastened fitting gives new popes on Day One the appropriate look of swimming in clothing too large for any man to fill. It won't be long before newly elevated Pope Benedict XVI is wearing custom-made clothing, we have no doubt. We don't know who is given the task of cutting the mostly white cloth to size; we imagine there exist seamstress nuns who traditionally specialize in the task–at this point a quarter of a century out of practice. Either way, the sewing machines are spindling overtime for the former Cardinal Ratzinger. At age 78, he's got to get cracking. It took his enemies–the usual suspects on the Catholic left (Fr. Richard McBrien) and the political left (Andrew Sullivan)--mere hours to begin shredding Benedict's new duds with their calumny scissors in front of countless millions on television.
We once made the acquaintance of a seminarian who told us he knew the shoemaker who fashioned Pope John Paul II's actual papal footwear, which are white to match the cassocks all the best-dressed pontiffs don. Apparently the uppers consist of slipper-like silk but we're certain the soles are smooth dead-cow leather. What must it be like to step into the shoes of the fisherman–the sandals of Saint Peter himself? What must it be like on this very day, Day Two of the toughest job on the planet, for Joseph Ratzinger?
We have been inundated with the facts of Pope Benedict's life by a secular press with little first-hand understanding of what it means to hear a calling from God for Total Commitment. We do know this fact: little Joey Ratzinger was an unshaven twelve-year-old when he answered his call to the priesthood and entered the seminary. Twelve years old.
And on the eve of the most devastating, life-taking world war this planet has ever seen.
Sixty years ago, young Fr. Ratzinger was fresh off some trenchantly nasty experiences during the war, including narrowly escaping being pressed into service for the dreaded SS, desertion at the risk of summary execution, and internment as a prisoner of war. A few years later, early into his priesthood, his doctrinal dissertation explored the extraordinary dangers of moral relativism. Around five days ago, likely secure in his certainty that he was too bloody old and had made too many enemies as JP II's Hammer to have a snowball's chance in hell of being elected pope, Joseph Ratzinger echoed this lifelong theme of the Tyranny of Moral Relativism during the papal funeral Mass. He essentially laid down the strategic thinking for his junior collegiate kid-kardinals, after a lifetime playing Roman-collared whippin'-boy himself at the hands of the Catholic-dissin', innocent-killin' Dark Star known as the post-modern secularist state, which has a map of Germany pictured with its entry in the Culture of Death Dictionary. "Surprise, surprise, my faithful son," the Holy Spirit whispered into his ear on Day Two of the Conclave, "We've got a new pair of shoes for you, Joltin' Joe." The I'd-Like-to-Just-Relax-and-Have-Beer-Guy in Ratzinger must have groaned.
"Total Gift of Self, Joseph," the Holy Spirit reminded him in the Sistine. "And by the way, how does Benedict grab ya?" After all, when Not-Yet-Saint-Peter dropped his final fishing net into the hull with Jesus waving at him from the shore, the future first pope didn't ken quite how long his long haul would be, either. Twelve-year-old seminarian J-Ratz could barely wait to offer his first Mass much less anticipate his final tour of duty while praying his rosary in the pines during those long-ago Bavarian springtimes, nor that he, too, would be asked to turn back on his own Appian Way for upside-down crucifixion.
A few years back, when it was announced that Joseph was looking forward to retirement in 2003 after twenty-plus challenging years grinding out the administrative work for the I'll-Let-My-Number-Two-Run-the-Church-While-I-Hit-the-Road-Tornado known as Pope John Paul II, God had already squeezed the bulk of Seven Decades of Total Self Giving from our bright little boy from the historically Catholic stronghold of Bavaria. (Bavaria is the only major area of Germany which rejected the Protestant Revolt in the 1500s, and, centuries later, was the only part of Germany which did not vote for the Nazi Party. Beer and automobile lovers would also claim, with much justification, that Bavaria makes the best of both blessings.)
Even before being called to a particularly difficult job by his predecessor, no student of the on-the-ground history of Vatican II didn't know about the brilliant theological advisor, Fr. Joseph Ratzinger, one the top wunderkinds theologica along with his buddies Henri de Lubac and Hans Urs von Balthasar. The bishops of Vatican II prayed up and yakked up the major themes–yet it was Joseph and a handful of mostly-German uber-scholars who wrote it up, line-by-line, word-by-word. Vatican II, for whatever else it was, was a forward-looking affair, and Joseph was right in the thick of it–remember that the next time the Left misrepresents Pope Benedict as a "conservative." Anything but. All popes are "conservative" when it comes to doctrine. Dogmatic purity is another one of those Holy Spirit Insurance Policies non-Catholics have never gotten and never will get. It's a faith thing. Pope Benedict was, and shall remain, a cutting-edge guy, noggin'-wise. It's not his fault that most folks won't figure that out 'til long after he's shuffled off this mortal coil, such being the standard fate for clear-minded forward-thinkers.
Which brings us to today. Joseph is getting a new name and new shoes. His old shoes and old name had been worn to holes past any reasonable expectation spent trudging down the Road to Emmaus. No, No, No, and Again I Say No, Speaketh the Holy Spirit, there will be no retirement to Gondalfo golf outings and red-hat martinis with the other Cardinals for thee, beloved Joe-Benedict. Total Commitment.
Perhaps Our Father in heaven can squeeze eight full decades of service out of the wiry whiz kid. That would bring him to 92 Bavarian Years Old, which translates into 65 Newark New Jersey Years, and Pope Benedict XVI hasn't even been shot...yet. We pray he dodges the most deadly bullets, too. Pope Benedict's brother, Georg, by the way and after all, is also a priest, and his heart keeps on ticking. Having entered seminary at the same time, they've punched the Total Gift of Self Clock for roughly one hundred and fifty years combined. That's a Sea of Galilee's worth of fishing net bursting with Confessions, Baptisms, Weddings, and Masses for Mr. and Mrs. Ratzinger's Boys. Perhaps they bet each other Beers in Heaven back in the day that each had to offer the funeral Mass for the other and neither Padre is up to the crying Uncle to his brother. Bavarian boys born between the wars don't cry nothing 'cept Christ Crucified. So if you got the reasonable impression that Polish pontiffs had a corner on the Papal Tough Guy market, impress again.
Marathon Joe's got himself a new pair of shoes with brand-spanking new soles, and from our little corner of a universe which is Catholic whether its inhabitants acknowledge it or not, you can burn-my-scapular if they don't look just like running shoes–if past perseverance is any predictor of future pontiffs. When it comes to this whole Total Commitment Thing, we suspect Pope Benedict is just getting started. Hope we can keep up.
